Pest
by William Griner
Summary: Writers are dying. FBI Special Agent Dana Scully suspects a human culprit. Her partner Fox Mulder sees an X-file in the trail left by a four-legged pest at each murder scene. What force is driving the deaths? And how can the agents stop a killer who seems capable of coming and going as she pleases?
1. A Gnawing in the Night

**Pest**

By William Griner

21 George Street

Charleston, S.C.

Had Rudolph Minelli been so inclined, he might have used his laptop to write a horror story instead of the usual literary fare that had allowed him to buy this luxury condominium so far away from Massachusetts.

Minelli could imagine the conversation he would have with his agent if he pitched the idea.

"Rudy, Rudy," Gordon would say in his best condescending tone, "why do you want to kill me by taking on Stephen King? You got your piece of the pie, right?"

And Minelli, familiar with this conversation, would nod and smile and provide his own line. "And no one depresses married, middle-aged women looking for love than I do."

"Correct, my friend – and where would a guy like you find material for a scary book anyway?"

Minelli shook his head and cursed. Even the thought of this imaginary conversation vexed him. That wasn't the reason, however, why he threw back the covers and sat up in bed. If he wanted to satisfy his agent's curiosity about a source of material, he could just call Gordon Lamarr, who was safe in his own apartment in New York, and place the cell phone up to the wall.

Scratch, scratch.

Pause.

Scratch, scratch.

Sitting here in the darkness, with nothing to distract him from hearing that infernal racket, another sensation struck him, the musky scent of a rodent that emanated from … where? The walls? Under the bed? Minelli lived in one of the most upscale places in the city, right in the heart of the downtown business center, where everything was just a walk away. Part of what had sold him on this place was how he could walk out on his balcony and enjoy the view of the shopping district. Now all he wanted was to go find his car in the gated parking garage and drive away.

Scratch, scratch.

Pause.

Scratch, scratch.

Minelli reached across to his night stand and switched on the small lamp so he could see the floor. His heart picked up the pace in his chest; his mind played with the language. _If the furry body of a filthy rat flitted across his foot_ …

Uhhh.

Soon, every light in the condo was on, and there the great novelist was, planted on the sofa with his laptop, feet drawn up so they wouldn't touch the floor. He was too exhausted to write but too shaken to return to bed. It wouldn't bother him quite as much if the animal noise wasn't so … deliberate? Was that aspect just his imagination playing games with him? The pest control expert he had brought in to examine his home, and who had returned multiple times over the last four months, had insinuated as much.

He moved to the kitchen long enough to make tea and returned to the sofa.

TV? No, he didn't want to start a movie on cable, and the only network offerings at 2:15 a.m. would be infomercials on new innovations in cookware.

 _Email_ , he decided, logging into his account. Minelli could use this time productively for catching up on business, returning messages and accepting invitations to speaking engagements. Oh, how he loved to visit the universities across the country for –

There she was, like clockwork.

Ms. Gypsy.

Scrolling down, he counted three different messages from her that had arrived in the last two hours.

Minelli had met the user of this email address in person while he was signing copies of "Betray Me Again" at a writer's conference. Students needed to make a connection with him, not because he was Rudolph Minelli the prize-winning author but because he was a _celebrity_ , so the fact that this young lady had lingered and asked questions had not surprised him. Her questions had been insightful enough, however, that he asked her to join him for drinks as soon as he could break away from the conference. Long after that evening, their correspondence had continued.

He clicked and read, clicked and read. As he was musing about the email sender's thought processes, Minelli noticed movement to his left, from the direction of his bedroom. His peripheral vision might just be playing tricks on him because he was so tired, but he could have sworn …

Hot tea.

Reaching for the cup on the coffee table, he gulped, savoring the burn in his mouth and throat as he swallowed. Minelli wanted to be alert. He couldn't shake this notion that there was something going, that forces beyond his understanding were toying with him.

Finally, senses heightened and mind cleared by the tea, he appraised the situation. So what if a rat was running around in the condo? Sure, it was ridiculous that Minelli's space might have rodents given how much he paid to live in luxury, but this particular problem could be remedied. Maybe his hyper-focus stemmed from not having a more suitable distraction. Was it just another sign that he should stop living alone? Well, he had a prospect that seemed willing to help out there, right?

Anyway, he would call the exterminator first thing at 8 a.m. and be firm this time. If this particular business couldn't do a simple job, well, there were others in Charleston who would be willing to take Rudolph Minelli's money.

As for the rat? Well, as much as the idea made Minelli's skin crawl, what if it ran across his feet? He might yell and look silly, but who would see it? What if, instead of the settling of the sheets on his legs as he stretched out on his king-sized bed, he felt the scurrying presence of …

 _Nope, Rudolph, old buddy, you were doing fine until you went there_.

Disgusted at his own fear, he climbed off the sofa and scooted through the French doors to the balcony. He wasn't sure how long he stood there, but at some point, the mugginess of the July morning brought beads of perspiration to his forehead. He consciously felt that he was getting tired enough to sleep. He would read the last email and finish his rest on the sofa instead of the bed.

Ms. Gypsy's urgency puzzled him, as it always did. He had maintained a stream of messages back and forth to her while he worked on his latest project, "Hearts in the Balkans," so there was no reason he could discern for her tone:

 _"Ignoring me? I get it. I realize that I have my small place and that you're a big-time writer, but you could at least acknowledge me and tell me what's going on! Is it so hard for someone as good with words as you are to make the briefest of contact?_

 _"One of these days, Rudolph, you're going to want me around and I'll be gone. Maybe I won't wind up with a big-time celebrity who has no time for little people, but I'll have someone who appreciates me and who can show common courtesy._

" _Did I do something wrong? Please, just tell me if I did! You know that I only want the best for you!"_

Minelli sighed. Where did she find time to be a student? Did she ever eat or sleep? How could she read his works or anyone else's when she was constantly emailing and demanding responses?

How was he supposed to write the books she claimed to love when she monopolized Minelli's every waking hour?

His fingertips brushed the laptop's keyboards, but he stopped without typing a word. Face twisted into a grimace, he jumped off the sofa and stomped around the living room, wondering again why he allowed this woman to get under his skin. Left with these messages full of histrionics, a frustrated Minelli couldn't remember what he had ever found charming about his poison pen pal.

A breeze whistled through the open French doors. Minelli, realizing that he was not going to sleep, stepped back on to the balcony. He leaned on the railing, staring back toward the living room, and allowed the warm wind to blow over him.

And it was then, resting there, that he saw the furry shape race toward him from beneath the sofa, darting straight at his bare feet.

Startled, Minelli's mouth opened.

He jerked his feet up, meaning to sit on the railing so the rat wouldn't touch him, but the thing sprang upward and nipped his shin, and Minelli fell backward into the night. Too surprised to yell, he clawed at empty air on his short voyage downward.

The fall should have only broken bones. Instead, Minelli landed on his head and died quickly.


	2. Counterfeit Soul

Three Months Later

Killearn Estates

Tallahassee, FL.

If Special Agent Fox Mulder realized his partner was annoyed when she finished her call, it didn't seem to faze him. As Dana Scully pocketed her cell phone, he said, "Getting back to my question: How many resources do you think are wasted on this pest?"

"Not again with rats."

"C'mon, there's a reason why I'm –"

Scully interrupted. "That was Skinner, by the way, wanting an update." She was referring to FBI Assistant Director Walter Skinner. "Guess what I had to tell him?"

"The truth." Mulder, behind the wheel, scanned numbers on mailboxes as the Bureau's Crown Victoria rolled slowly through the planned community on this sunny morning. "We are following up on the links we found to the five deaths."

"Did you say 'links,' as in plural? Are you implying that there is more than one?"

"Well, when you include what we've discovered about the –"

"Skinner is covering for us," Scully said, "while Harriet Clemenceau is breathing down his neck, demanding to know why we've made no progress, much less an arrest."

"And I would be more than happy to report –"

"Mulder, I can't advise you strongly enough against sharing your theories with the senator."

"I get that Greg Winningham was her friend. All the more reason for us to fully explore –"

"He was also a major donor to her re-election campaign," Scully said. "You may not care about politics, but every day that we don't make an arrest, Clemenceau is using her Washington network to throw the whole Bureau under the bus."

"You're right about one thing; the politics don't matter." Before an irritated Scully could respond, Mulder continued: "I want to close this X-File, and it _is_ an X-File, so no other writers die." The townhome that the agents were looking for was in a cul-de-sac. The Crown Vic stopped on the street, and Mulder killed the engine. "Besides, remember what I said about 'Hearts in Bondage,' Minelli's novel?"

"You never read it but thought the actress in the movie was hot?"

"Well …" To change the subject, Mulder studied the surroundings. "You wouldn't expect to find rats in an upscale neighborhood like this one."

"Mulder, I swear, if you bring that up during this interview, I'm going to shoot you." Climbing out of the car, she canted her toward the car parked in the driveway. "Looks like our award-winning author has company."

Doug Cedarton met the agents at the door and ushered them into a study decorated with memorabilia from his employer, Florida State University. Mulder, indicating a pennant commemorating the football team's last national title, cut off his comment when he saw what had drawn his partner's attention. Scully was coolly regarding a young woman who rose from the sofa in the room.

Cedarton seemed oblivious to the exchange of glances between Mulder and Scully. "Agents, let me introduce you to –"

"Allie Prevatte."

She was attractive – early 20s, high cheek bones, sharp green eyes – but it was the simple way she was dressed, in a T-shirt and blue jeans that drew Scully's attention. With a toss of her blonde head, Prevatte shook hands with the agents … and allowed her smile to linger much longer than was necessary on Mulder. "I won't be a bother, I was just leaving," she said.

Scully chose to ignore the flirting with her partner and instead noted the worn backpack that Prevatte slung over her shoulder.

Cedarton asked, "Front row tonight?"

Prevatte touched his arm as she slipped by. "Of course."

Scully waited for Prevatte to exit the house before she asked, "Is it common for you to host students in your home, Dr. Cedarton?"

The professor, mouth tightening, motioned for the agents to take seats on the sofa. He rounded the desk and sat at his computer. "You know, this is exactly why I didn't want to be bothered with you people, Agent Scully."

"We're trying to save lives," Scully countered.

"Saving lives – right, right," Cedarton said, nodding in mock sympathy. "So far, all that has been threatened is my work schedule. Along with my writing projects, I'm carrying a full load at the university this semester, juggling speaking engagements, and hosting a steady stream of guests who want something from me. And as to your insinuation about something inappropriate going on, Agent Scully, I'll have you know that Ms. Prevatte is not a student."

"My apologies –"

"None are necessary. Just ask your questions so we can be done. I have to squeeze in time this morning to prepare for my reading tonight."

Scully opened her mouth to speak, and the doorbell rang.

"Yet another interruption."

As Cedarton pulled away from his desk, Mulder and Scully followed him to the door.

"Our profile concludes that the writers might have met someone recently who gained access to their homes," Mulder said. "Using this access, the stranger –"

Cedarton dismissed the concern with a simple wave. "I'm a very careful person," he said, "and I'm expecting this particular interruption."

The door opened for a heavyset man wearing a cap and a gray service type uniform. He had arrived in a small white truck that had the same logo painted on the side that was stitched on the front of his work shirt: Critter Removers.

An ecstatic Mulder whipped his head around to Scully, who silenced him by tapping the .40-caliber pistol at her side. "Not a word, Mulder, or so help me God …"

Cedarton briefly outlined for Mike the wildlife specialist why he had contacted Critter Removers while the FBI agents stood by and listened. "The gnawing in the walls and skittering around in the attic seems worst late at night. You know, that used to be my most productive time for writing. Now I can't concentrate at all."

Mike jotted a note on his clipboard. "You seem pretty sure a rat is the culprit."

"I've _seen_ it. There I am in my study, a scene coming to life so vividly I can _taste_ it, and out of the corner of my eye this ugly little thing –"

"Lots of different species." Folding his arms, Mike said, "Could you confirm it was a rat?"

Cedarton seemed to shrink into himself and appealed to the nearby agents for help. "Does it matter? I mean, I just want the thing _gone_."

Mulder stepped forward and, after making introductions, interjected himself into the conversation. "In the deaths we're investigating, my partner and I discovered that each victim had recently contacted either an exterminator or a pest control service."

"We prefer 'wildlife control,' Agent Mulder. From their perspective, man is the real pest."

Cedarton ignored Mike and said to Mulder, "You think rats killed those other writers?"

"That's just absurd," Mike snapped. "Why is the FBI wasting valuable time when it should be chasing a two-legged creature?"

"We are," Scully said to placate the wildlife specialist. Reaching over, she tugged on Cedarton's sports coat sleeve to pull him back toward his study. "While my partner covers that particular, ahem, angle of our case, I'd like to discuss the human aspect with you."

And that was how the agents mutually and amicably decided to split their workload.

Mulder, having opened the door to a dark new wrinkle, would continue to plunge into the mysterious X-File component that was lurking within the confines of Doug Cedarton's townhome.

Scully wanted to know more about Allie Prevatte.

Her more traditional approach led her to find out more about Cedarton's reading that night.

Alumni Center Grand Ballroom

1030 W. Tennessee Street

Tallahassee, FL.

The capacity crowd in the ballroom loved Doug Cedarton. That affection was expressed through spirited applause when the dean of the FSU English Department introduced him. A moment later he appeared at the podium and opened with a self-deprecating joke that elicited laughter from the students, faculty, and members of the community. Cedarton seemed at home here, among friends.

The position that Scully took at the reading gave her a line of sight on who entered the ballroom and allowed her to gauge the prevailing mood. As the professor spent the next 45 minutes relating his love of storytelling and reading excerpts from an upcoming novel, Scully multitasked – drifting along the periphery of the room, studying faces, and ruminating again over what the victims had in common.

"Writers isolate themselves to practice their craft," Cedarton told his audience. "We must concentrate to put the story on the page, but it is that retreat into solitude that makes us vulnerable when the demons come: loneliness, self-doubt, depression."

Murmurs rippled through the attendance. Heads nodded. It was, after all, a literary crowd.

Cedarton continued: "For that reason, I appreciate opportunities such as this one to share with you the joy of storytelling." Light applause came in response. "I am also grateful for those times when I may personally encourage the budding artists around us, those who are discovering their own voices."

Allie Prevatte, in keeping with the remarks shared earlier at Cedarton's home, sat on the front row. From his place at the podium, Cedarton made eye contact with her, singling the young woman out with a smile that lingered in the air, like a thread between them. Prevatte glowed in return.

This crowd had been promised an exclusive reading from "Counterfeit Soul"; Cedarton indulged, tantalizing with his descriptions of the troubled protagonist and his female tormentor.

He read: "And the connection that Andrew believed he made with Viveca? It was the same one so many men before him had made. Her uncharted territory, once entered, proved to be just a tourist trap. He had fallen for a façade that was as easily crumbled as dead leaves in November's chill."

Finally, the reading drew to a close. The crowd applauded one last time, and the author drank it in modestly but comfortably. The dean stepped back to the podium and shook Cedarton's hand. He announced that, after a short break for refreshments, the author would be available to sign books at a display set up outside the ballroom. The attendants dispersed, some heading for the wine and finger food prepared for the occasion, while others formed a line at the book table. Scully stood nearby and watched the interaction between Cedarton and Prevatte.

She was the first person the author spoke to when he dived into the crowd, greeting her with a hug. Prevatte whispered in the man's ear, and he nodded and grinned. Cedarton then slipped an arm around the woman's waist and guided her through the well-wishers. As the readers of his books encircled him, Cedarton pulled away from his embrace of Prevatte to shake the hands thrust at him from all directions. He paused in the middle of the room to field questions and to engage in light banter.

Scully noticed the abrupt change in Prevatte's expression, from beaming smile to haughty scowl. The young woman, dressed in a low-cut and tight outfit more appropriate for club-hopping than a literary event, still stood next to Cedarton. As he was talking to what appeared to be a female college student, Cedarton reached for Prevatte's hand. She pulled away suddenly, breaking through the crowd and stomping off in the direction of the restrooms.

It was like a scene, Scully thought, from a high school hallway.

Cedarton, in mid-sentence, stared at Prevatte until she rounded the corner. He seemed puzzled.

Scully followed the woman from a short distance.

Killearn Estates

Tallahassee, FL.

If Mike from Critter Removers appreciated Mulder holding a flashlight for him as he rummaged through the back of his service truck, he didn't show it. The wildlife control expert barely acknowledged the FBI special agent as he pulled out two more of his humane traps to set in his client's townhome.

"Catch and release?" Mulder asked.

Mike shrugged. "We are not the only creatures entitled to live on Mother Earth."

"Is there a shortage of rats in the world?"

Ignoring Mulder's remark, Mike trudged to Cedarton's front door and entered. Mulder followed.

"The people of northeastern India and Bangladesh would say 'no.' Every 50 years, when bamboo plants release their seeds, whole armies of rats flood the rural areas, eating all the food, whole crops."

The two men were now in Cedarton's study. "We are a long way from India, Agent Mulder."

"Paris has 2 million people and 8 million rats. In London, they proliferate because abandoned properties are giving them more places to roost. Same effect in the United States: Baltimore, New Orleans, Chicago, Atlanta. Most urban areas are battling rat infestations. The rat is the most destructive vertebrate in the world."

"One-sided thinking." Mike stooped and set one of the rectangular rat traps in the corner. "Man seems to be the only species too selfish to co-exist with the rat."

Mulder shook his head in disbelief. "It's one-sided, but not the way you mean. Rats benefit from humanity's presence, the food and shelter we provide. We only gain the opportunity to die sooner."

Mike opened his mouth to respond. Mulder, blood pressure rising, cut him off.

"Let's say that you conveniently forget world history and ignore the one-third of the population wiped out during the Middle Ages by the Black Plague – spread by black rats roaming freely in European cities. Fast-forward to the present. Rats are still spreading diseases like foot-and-mouth to people and other animals.

"Speaking of other animals," Mulder continued, "wharf rats have led to the extinction of wildlife on many islands after stowing away on ships and migrating. The only part of the world that doesn't worry about rats is Antarctica. Know why?" Before Mike could respond, Mulder continued: "One reason is the climate. The other? No human habitation."

"Evolution might cause humanity to be replaced at the top of the food chain." Mike checked his trap and then stood, folding his arms and regarding Mulder curiously. "That doesn't explain why rats figure into your FBI investigation. Are you trying to blame one of those creatures for a human death?"

Studying the pest control – ahem, wildlife specialist – a thought occurred to Mulder. For a moment, he stood outside of himself and wondered if Scully ever felt as he did now when she was trying to explain to him …

No, forget it, Mulder decided. He was right.

Mulder followed Mike as the other man moved into the kitchen. As he was opening the pantry door, he said to the FBI special agent, "You never answered my question."

"For some reason, rats keep turning up on the periphery. One death was caused by a fire, and –"

"What does that –"

"Let me finish. Rats are a fire hazard, suspected in one-fourth of all fires of unknown origin."

"Hardly murder," Mike said. "They chew things, electrical wires included."

"The last victim in our case sustained a small wound matching a rodent's bite pattern. My partner and I are digging for other links."

Mike, stepping into the pantry, moved cleaning supplies on the floor aside. Chuckling, he said, "Didn't sound like your partner was sold on your wild theories."

Partner? The thought occurred to Mulder that he could call Scully to for an update. He dismissed the thought as he watched Mike install the second trap in the pantry. "Satisfy my curiosity. When you catch this rat –"

"If I catch it, you mean. The thing you have to admire about these creatures is their resourcefulness. They burrow in wherever they want to go, avoid traps and survive. Finding the resource they need is never a problem."

Mulder nodded. "That's why some cultures revere them, for their ambition. If you catch this rat, what are you going to do with it?"

"Release it into the wild."

"But then it's just going to –"

"Odds are pretty good that some predator will snack on it," Mike answered. "Neighborhood cat, coyotes, hawks or owls. Snakes, too."

"Ever handle snakes on the job?"

"All the time. Leave a door open, and an oak snake crawls in and finds a dark corner. People also buy boas and pythons for the novelty, then get tired and dump them in the woods. They crawl under houses, find a ready food supply of domestic animals and get bigger."

A half smile formed on Mulder's face. "I could suggest that Cedarton get a cat."

"Sounds like he's having enough issues with his two-legged pet," Mike said, snickering. Stepping from the pantry, he said, "Anyway, I'll check back with him tomorrow about the traps. Will you lock up?"

"Sure." He followed Mike to the front door. "What did you mean about issues just now?"

"When the professor contacted our office, I was the one he spoke to. Whole time he was trying to answer my questions, there was yelling and screaming in the background. Girlfriend, wife – definitely a woman. Got on my nerves. I wondered why Dr. Cedarton didn't wait until the argument was over to call." Chuckling again, he said, "What an energy drainer."

Mulder stood in the doorway and watched as Mike climbed into the Critter Removers truck and pulled out of the driveway. Soon the headlights from the vehicle had disappeared. Since Scully had their vehicle, and he was stuck here at the townhome with time on his hands anyway … Mulder decided to snoop. The computer in the study would be the ideal place to start.


	3. Cat and Mouse

Alumni Center Grand Ballroom

1030 W. Tennessee Street

Tallahassee, FL.

Scully feared that the young woman she had been trailing might have spotted her. Then, as she padded down the hallway outside the ballroom, she saw the back of Allie Prevatte's blonde head, and it became obvious that the woman's attention was concentrated on something else – or rather, someone else. Prevatte was walking arm in arm with a male student who, moments earlier, had been standing around in the ballroom waiting to shake Cedarton's hand. Scully had watched as the woman struck up a conversation and effortlessly drug the student away from the ballroom floor.

"Where are we going?" the man asked.

In his other hand he was holding what Scully guessed to be a copy of one of Cedarton's books. When the young man turned his head in Prevatte's direction, Scully noted his profile. Angular face, glasses, long hair – and he seemed bewildered but happy at his good fortune.

"Don't worry," Prevatte said. "I just wanted to get away and talk. Let's go outside."

She directed him toward the student parking area, which seemed empty of people for the moment.

"I could've sworn you were here with Dr. Cedarton."

"Him?" Prevatte tossed her hair and sniffed. "What would a famous author with all those adoring fans want with me? Besides, did you see the way he was looking at those tramps back there?"

"I didn't get that impression –"

"Hush."

Scully had circled her way around the parking lot and was winding through the aisles of vehicles toward the couple. She couldn't hear them now without risking being seen, but there was no need. Prevatte eased in close to her new acquaintance. He slipped his arms around her and kissed her, tentatively at first, then hungrily, lost in the embrace. It was plain that this kind of hookup didn't happen to him every day; he had thought the highlight of tonight would be the reading and getting an autograph. It was like the first chapter of …

Then just as suddenly, he pulled away. "Wait, that kinda hurt –"

Prevatte pressed against him, and he stumbled backward, banging against an SUV door.

At first Scully thought she was seeing some trick of the lights, but a strange luminescence seemed to emanate from Prevatte, growing in intensity as she dug her fingers into the man's arms. He struggled, lips still pressed to hers, but she fought him now. Scully, blue eyes never leaving the entwined couple, reached for her service weapon.

And then her cell phone chirped.

Prevatte's head whipped around. "Doug, is that you?"

The young man, momentarily released, fell to his knees and gasped for breath.

Cursing, Scully simultaneously answered her cell and stepped forward so the couple could see her. "Mulder, let me call you back."

"You," Prevatte hissed.

"Federal agent. Step away from him now."

"I don't think so."

Prevatte knelt to the blacktop, snatched away the man's hardcover book and threw it with all the force she could muster at Scully's head. The FBI special agent ducked behind a car. As the book sailed harmlessly overhead, Scully drew the .40-caliber pistol on her belt and rose to challenge Prevatte. The book struck a nearby economy car and set off the vehicle's alarm. The split-second of distraction was all that Prevatte needed. Baring her white teeth in an animal frenzy, she launched herself at Scully.

Leon County Sheriff's Office

535 Appleyard Drive

Tallahassee, FL.

Scully should have appeared tired and edgy after her long hours of following up on the latest development in this case. Yet, as Mulder gazed into the small interrogation room where his partner now sat facing the young woman she had arrested the night before, Scully seemed composed. Serene, even. The way her blue eyes narrowed to feline slits as they locked on to Allie Prevatte told him that Scully was eager to pounce.

"Why are you smiling?" Prevatte demanded.

"Locking up murderers makes me happy."

For effect, Scully clasped her hands together in a little _it-is-done_ gesture.

 _Perfect performance_ , Mulder thought.

"You're back on that? What proof, other than a bunch of emails that could've come from anywhere, do you have that I killed someone?"

It was Mulder's turn to smile. Innocent people protested the accusation; the guilty ones wanted to see the evidence so they could lob their rebuttals against the wall. Scully would recognize, as he had, that Prevatte had denied nothing so far … just the FBI's capacity to prove it.

"Well, I will admit that the Bureau is in the early stages of its investigation," Scully conceded. "But we've already discovered an interesting detail about the emails sent to our five victims. While the addresses were different, the emails came from the same place. So, that establishes a link between each victim and the emailer."

Prevatte opened her mouth, then bit off whatever she was about to say.

"Oh," Scully said, continuing with her performance, "I'm also reasonably sure that one of our Behavioral Science profilers will testify, based on commonalities such as syntax, that the emails were written by one person." The FBI special agent shrugged. "But, as I said, Ms. Prevatte, the FBI just started digging. Who really knows what else we'll find?"

The young woman fidgeted, which had the effect of making her appear smaller. Clearly she wanted to retreat into the corner. As the two agents watched, one in the room and one from behind the observation glass, Prevatte lifted her head slightly, wrinkled her nose, as if she was testing the air, and said, "I want to speak to Dr. Cedarton."

"He isn't –"

"Doug is _here,_ I know it."

"You aren't going to –"

"I need to see him _immediately_ to clear up this nonsense, Agent Scully, and you and the FBI can't keep us apart when -"

"No."

Mulder was reminded of a cat suddenly dropping its paw, claws unsheathed, on unsuspecting prey. That one word, delivered in a tone as firm as it was icy, ended Prevatte's tirade.

"Agent Mulder?"

Focused on the interrogation, the FBI special agent hadn't noticed that a deputy had entered the observation area with Doug Cedarton in tow. The deputy left the two men alone, and the professor slumped into a chair at the small table in the room and rubbed his sleepy eyes with his fists.

"This is just awful, Agent Mulder, just awful."

"She was asking for you just now."

"I can't … I don't want to …"

Mulder dispensed with the pleasantries. "You met Ms. Prevatte a couple of years ago at a writer's conference."

"New York."

"Correct," Mulder said. "The five writers who are part of our case? They attended as well."

"What are you saying?"

"You must have some idea of what I'm saying." Mulder jerked a thumb toward the interrogation room. "Tell me about your friend in there."

The professor took a deep threat, and in the quiet of the room, Mulder believed he could hear the wheels turning in the other man's head.

"Well, as you can imagine, Agent Mulder, a person in my position is often asked to read manuscripts, offer advice – that kind of thing. I offer encouragement where I can. God knows the world could use more solid writing." He glanced toward the interrogation room. "Allie introduced herself to me during a break in the conference. On a lark, I sat down with her and discussed some of the nuts and bolts of storytelling. Not only did she ask very pertinent questions, but she displayed the kind of humility you find in a true student of the craft."

"Dr. Cedarton, I'm not trying to pry into your life, but –"

"Good. I value my privacy."

"I need to get a better understanding of Ms. Prevatte and your relationship with her."

A sad smile crossed the professor's face. "Up and down," he said. "That's the best way to describe it."

Mulder, who was looking past Cedarton, watched as Scully slipped out of the interrogation room and stood nearby. Leaning against the wall with her arms folded, she listened surreptitiously.

"Let's try it another way," Mulder said, taking a quick glance at his partner. "I'm going to offer my assessment. Jump in and tell me where I'm wrong."

Though his confusion was evident, Cedarton nodded.

"She intrigued you from your first meeting," Mulder said, "And how could she not? An attractive young woman who is also intelligent and shares common interests? It was like something out of – "

"A novel," Cedarton offered.

"The relationship jumped from zero to sixty, full-blown romance. You were swept away. At the same time, you couldn't escape the feeling that you never had sure footing. Ms. Prevatte kept you off balance – hot and cold, hot and cold. She demanded time and admiration; meanwhile, your needs didn't matter." Mulder paused, allowing the professor to digest his assessment. "Trivial things set her off and she would berate you to the point you thought it was all over. Just when you decided it was time to move on, she swooped in and smothered you with affection. And in those episodes of tension, whether you chose to admit it or not, an implied threat hung in the air."

"Allie might sleep with someone else," Cedarton said quietly. "Which was what she was about to do tonight, with one of my students. Just to humiliate me."

"In her mind," Mulder said, "it made sense."

"I wasn't giving her enough attention, a common refrain." Cedarton, slumped in the chair, looked defeated. He took a deep breath and stared straight ahead at the wall for a long moment, as if there was something in the faded paint that could show him direction. Then something seemed to click. He sat up straight, pushed up from the table and walked toward the door. "I'm done here."

"Heading to your office?"

"Home," Cedarton answered. "I'm going to do what I should've done a long time ago."

The professor thought the FBI special agent was extending his hand for a final shake. Instead, Mulder handed him a business card with a handwritten note on the back. "What's this?"

Mulder said, "The address for a pet store. Read my suggestion."

As Cedarton exited, Scully stepped forward and joined her partner. She appraised him silently with a smile that conveyed approval.

"Am I to believe with your spot-on analysis of Allie Prevatte as someone with narcissistic personality disorder that you've shifted your focus to the human element in this case?"

Mulder snickered. "Say that again three times really fast."

"I'm serious. When you take into account the victimology, it fits together as another piece of the puzzle. Many artists, like writers, exhibit the kinds of insecurities that make them the right targets for a narcissist."

"Then we agree."

"We do," she said, and ushered her partner toward the door. "And here I thought I was going to spend breakfast shooting down theories that the killer is some kind of extraterrestrial."

"That would be weird," Mulder said over his shoulder, "considering that Prevatte is an energy-draining demon who takes the form of a rat."

Scully's jaw dropped, and as she pivoted to respond, a deputy approached her from the interrogation room. "Agent Scully? Your suspect asked to see you. Actually, she's demanding it."

The deflated and panicked young woman that Scully had left in the small room minutes before seemed to have departed. In her place was a composed being who displayed her anger through hard eyes and a tight smile. "Yes?" Scully said.

"You haven't charged me with murder."

"Not yet."

"Then you can't hold me any longer," Prevatte said, sweeping her hands around, "in this cage."

"The novel 'Greta Died in L.A. –'"

Prevatte interjected, "Doug's first book. It didn't sell and was out of print until –"

"Last night when I identified myself in the parking area, you hurled that book at me. The murder investigation will continue … as you sit here charged with assault on an FBI special agent."

Like a volcano erupting, the seething Prevatte rose from her chair and fixed eyes that shone with hate on Scully. "Do you think this is the first trap I've ever escaped from?" she said, her voice controlled but shrill. "You won't keep me here."

"See you in court."

"Oh, I look forward to it," Prevatte said. "There I was, an acquaintance of Doug's, lured and pulled away from the fiction reading by a date rapist. While I was fighting him off in the parking lot, an FBI agent startled me. Confused, fearful for my life, I lashed out. Then, while sitting in jail, I learned that the FBI wants to pin several deaths on me because it can't explain how five men died under mysterious circumstances."

Scully studied Prevatte carefully. In a mere instant, the murder suspect had undergone a stunning transformation. Her features had softened, making her appear as an attractive twenty-something. She no longer sounded desperate or enraged. No, now Allie Prevatte was playing the part of a besieged girl victimized by an out-of-control legal system. Depending on the jury, it might play well enough to get her out of jail.

Scully didn't realize that her partner had opened the door and was standing behind her until he spoke. "So," Mulder said to Prevatte, "are there more of you out there?"

The young woman smiled, flashing her white, even teeth at the FBI special agent. "Just me," she answered, waving flirtatiously at him. "But then … all a man has ever needed is me."

The agents departed. In the parking lot, Scully said, "Why did you ask her that question?"

"Curiosity, Scully, just curiosity." As his partner inserted the key in the driver's side car, Mulder said, "Here's some trivia for you: Did you know that the collective name for a group of rats is a mischief?"

Scully exhaled. "Mulder, I swear to God …"


	4. A Better Mouse Trap

One Day Later

Killearn Estates

Tallahassee, FL.

"Let me out right here," Allie Prevatte said, indicating a two-story house on the passenger's side.

The guy driving nodded and pulled into the driveway. Touching her hand, he said, "Mind if I come in and have a beer?"

"Some other time."

Frowning, the guy switched off the ignition and stared at Prevatte's profile. "I thought we were making a connection."

Prevatte reached for the door and opened it. Climbing out, she looked back and smiled. "Stay sweet."

"What does that even mean?"

Prevatte sauntered away. Knowing that her driver was still watching, she half turned and gave the kind of little wave with her fingers that was designed to provoke. She _wanted_ to elicit a reaction. Hadn't that been the point of teasing this guy in the five miles from the downtown bar where she had left her own vehicle? With tentative touches, borderline drunken banter, she had gotten him thinking about what a lucky night it was going to be, and she had relished absorbing that attention, that energy. It was so much to play with them, and now if he made an angry move in her direction …

But no. The guy started the engine and she saw that he was shaking his head as he jerked the car into gear. Prevatte caught the guy's eye and motioned for him to roll down the window so she could take one last verbal shot …

He rolled on, ignoring her.

 _Well_ , she thought. _He wasn't a very nice person_.

The car disappeared, and Prevatte focused her attention on her surroundings. The townhome that was her destination this night was within easy walking distance from the drop-off point.

Fences, wrought-iron gates? The man-made barriers might as well not even exist, given how useless they proved in keeping her out of this neighborhood in the northeastern section of the capital city. She darted into a nearby backyard and zipped through a thin tree line where she would enter Doug Cedarton's residence one last time. The passion she had tasted from him had been exquisite, but it had been ladled out to her in drips and drops, not enough to satisfy the never-ending hunger.

Tonight would come the animal, the final feeding.

And then the next succulent target after Doug Cedarton would be …

She had no idea. Thanks to those two meddling FBI agents, Prevatte had not prepared another nest in her normal fashion. Prevatte bristled at the memory of how that woman, the one named Scully, had confronted her so casually and coolly, threatening to keep her locked in that cage.

Oh, how she wanted to sink her incisors into that red-head's white flesh and –

Enough. Fantasizing about revenge was one thing. When it came to actually confronting that Scully woman again? Well …

She arrived at Cedarton's residence and noticed the absence of light from the windows. It was unusual for the night-owl author to be in bed this early. The paralyzing thought occurred to her that he might not be home, and she dismissed it quickly. All she had to do now was close her eyes and she could sense him inside. Her nose crinkled ever so slightly as she sniffed the cool air that carried his scent like a written invitation.

Slipping inside was easy, just a matter of reverting to her other form. She accessed the kitchen and took a circuitous route from corner to corner, darkness veiling her as she hugged the wall and scampered into the living area.

Cedarton was sitting with the lights off in his recliner. Something seemed off. He was awake, staring straight ahead and thinking, but there was …

What?

She struggled with deciphering what the problem was as she edged behind the chair. Shimmering in waves of green light into her two-legged form, Prevatte suddenly grasped what she was sensing.

 _Nothing_.

Emptiness rolled like beads of sweat off the author and professor in rivulets that Prevatte, with her otherworldly perception, could feel.

That was distressing.

She decided to offer a remedy.

In one fluid motion she stepped in front of the chair and called his name, startling him, confusing him. He reached for the lamp next to him on the coffee table, gripped it as if to take a swing. When he realized it was Prevatte, he exhaled heavily and switched on the lamp instead.

"Were you going to hit me with that?" she asked, feigning innocence.

"My God, Allie."

Cedarton bolted from the recliner and switched on more lights as he stomped down the hall to his bedroom. She followed closely behind, smiling as she felt a surge of energy rush through her.

She was taken aback when she entered. Was that an empty aquarium set up under the window? Since when had Doug become interested in pets? There was also a suitcase sitting next to the wall, prepared to hold the clothes folded neatly on the bed.

"Going somewhere cold, Doug?"

"Alaska. When they told me you were out on bail, I made the arrangements."

The woman crossed her arms and shivered dramatically. "You couldn't get me to live somewhere that cold."

"That's the point, Allie." As the woman's lips curled downward in reaction, Cedarton asked, "Why are you here anyway?"

"So you could tell me why you had me arrested."

"You managed that all by yourself, sweetie. Assaulting an FBI agent?"

"They turned you against me, Doug, filling your head with nonsense about murder."

"People have _died_ , Allie. Writers like me, writers who have been … involved with you."

"FBI conspiracies," she said, sniffing. "I read somewhere that it was the FBI that really killed Marilyn Monroe." Prevatte plopped down on the bed, and her voice dropped to a whisper. "Poor Marilyn, so misunderstood." She looked up at Cedarton with a teary pout. "No one really loved her."

Cedarton stared at her with the same vacant expression he had been wearing earlier when she found him in the living room. "We're done," he said.

"Just like that?" Prevatte rose from the bed.

Gesturing to the door, he said, "Get out, now."

She reached for the top button of her blouse. Unfastened it with practiced deliberation. Painted nails tugged at the second button when –

"What was that noise?" she demanded.

Cedarton stepped away and craned his head in the direction of his front door down the hall. "The FBI," he answered. "My house is under surveillance."

Shoving the man, Prevatte gritted her teeth and snarled, "You tried to _trap_ me?"

The front door swung open. "Federal agents," a woman's voice called.

Mulder yelled, "Dr. Cedarton."

"Back here."

A flash of green light blinded Cedarton momentarily as the pair of agents charged down the hall in his direction. In that split second of illumination, Prevatte disappeared. Cedarton, rubbing his eyes, focused and glanced toward the open closet, but she wasn't there. In his disoriented state, he felt an unsettling _something_ skitter across his foot, but when he looked at the floor, there was nothing.

The terrarium. The lid was off because he had forgotten about it. There was a dry limb within its confines, along with a small bowl of water; mulch lined and covered the bottom.

Mulder and Scully appeared at his door, weapons drawn and working in tandem to illuminate the corners of the room with their flashlights. "Where is she?" Scully asked.

"I don't know, she was just –"

An awful squeal interrupted Cedarton. The three people heard scuffling from under the bed, accompanied by ree-ree-ree's of pain and terror.

"Is that a pet?" Scully asked, holstering her firearm.

Cedarton nodded. "I took Agent Mulder's advice, but I didn't go to the pet store."

The author joined the two FBI special agents in kneeling. Cedarton stretched out and eased down onto the carpet, lying on his side. He raised the sheets and blanket from the floor and, taking Mulder's flashlight, glanced to see what in the small space under the bed was causing the commotion.

"Oh … wow."

Scully joined him on the floor and took a peek for herself. "Oh, my God," she said. "What kind of snake is that?"

"Reticulated python," Mulder said. "Notice the color pattern."

"And what has it caught?" Scully asked.

The python had wrapped its three-foot length around a piece of brownish-gray fur that writhed for its life within the coils. Tiny feet pawed the air, punctuated by horrible shrieks, but instead of relinquishing its grip, the python methodically tightened each time its prey exhaled. With the piece of fur under control, the python opened its mouth revealing razor-sharp teeth, and seized its prey head first. The feeding process had begun.

Cedarton rose to a kneeling position, as did the agents. "It's a rat, Agent Scully."

"Where did you get a reticulated python?" she asked.

The author and the agents climbed to their feet as Cedarton explained. "Remember Mike from Critter Removers? He was telling me about how people buy these pythons and boas because their kids want them as pets. You know how kids are. When the novelty of an exotic animal in the house wears off, they don't want the responsibility anymore. Sometimes they dump the poor snakes in the woods to be rid of them.

"Then what happens? A snake will associate neighborhoods like this one with food. They find a nice, comfortable space under a house or in an attic and take up residence. Pretty soon, other pets in the neighborhood start to disappear, until the day comes when someone spots the long tail of a monster dangling from a vent. The snake, who was just minding his own business, surviving as best as he can, is labeled a pest."

Mulder scanned the bedroom. "Got anything we could use to pry the rat away?"

Shaking her head disapprovingly, Scully grabbed her partner's arm. "I see no reason to interfere with nature running its course."

"You don't understand, Scully; we need that rat to establish –"

"Let it go, Agent Mulder," Cedarton said quietly but firmly. "The rat got what was coming to it."

The agent took another quick look under the bed. The dying rodent's thin tail was slipping into the python's mouth, absorbed in the reptile's lengthy digestive process. Mulder sighed. It was never easy watching a piece of evidence slip away before his eyes.

Two Days Later

FBI Headquarters

Washington, D.C.

Mulder was staring at the computer screen in his office when Scully entered, followed by FBI Assistant Director Walter Skinner. His partner was telling Skinner, "... and there haven't been any reports so far about Prevatte's whereabouts."

"You agents connected the dots," Skinner said. "The local law enforcement agencies can do the rest of the legwork in running her down."

Mulder swiveled in his chair. "Sketches have been provided to the media. Surprisingly, no one seems to have a photo of Prevatte."

"Like she disappeared," Scully said.

"The publicity will make it hard for her to stay hidden," Skinner said. Handing the case file he had been reviewing to Mulder, he said. "The media occasionally has its uses."

"Speaking of the media," Scully said to Skinner, "Mulder and I saw news reports about a probe into Sen. Clemenceau's campaign finances."

"Improper donations, irregularities," Skinner answered. "Apparently, the IRS is taking a hard look at her personal earnings as well."

Mulder cracked a smile. "So I guess she had other reasons for turning up the heat on the FBI besides her friend the writer."

Skinner nodded. "And even though the Bureau is only in the beginning stages of its investigation, someone tipped off a Washington Post reporter." He crossed his arms over his barrel chest and appraised the agent coolly. "Didn't you date a political reporter at the Post a few years ago, Mulder?"

"I doubt she would even remember me."

Skinner felt it necessary to frown at the agent, but Scully saw a trace of a smile on the assistant director's face as he moved by her and exited the basement office. When their boss was out of earshot, Mulder turned his attention to Scully. "A better question," he said. "Don't you still have a contact at the IRS?"

"Why, Mulder, surely you don't think the python in Tallahassee gave some sort of twisted inspiration, do you?"

Later on, when he gave it more thought, Mulder would realize exactly what his partner had meant about the snake.

The remedy for a pest?

Sometimes it's a bigger pest.


End file.
